The Collective Analysis of a Former Delinquent
by Novelist Pup
Summary: AU: In which Arthur Kirkland discovers why he hates everything. Especially Alfred, the Italian mafia, and the French detective that isn't very good at his job. But, with emphasis on Alfred. :Slash
1. The Kirkland Theory

**The Collective Analysis of a Former Delinquent  
**

So I am feeling very Hetaliafic again, but I still have to finish that Universitalia fic that was actually almost done until my laptop crashed and everything died D:

Emiggax is co-author again, for all my DGM buddies out thar

I really really really like France/UK as well, just so the world can know

This, as well, is a crimefic in a sense. I am by default a humor and romance writer, so this is like a really silly experiment. It is also super silly because it contains a vaguely Ocean's Eleven kind of situation and Feliciano as the don of a mafia and I pretty much lol'd while thinking of this

Thanks for checkin' me—I mean, the fic—out

**Disclaimed.**

_

* * *

1 – The Kirkland Theory_

It was about _early o'clock_ in the _bloody morning_ when Arthur Kirkland received the call that would probably ruin his life. It really varied on which way you looked at it.

"Mmph," he grumbled, patting around his nightstand for the corded phone that usually took it's residence in that general area. His fingers finally touched the familiar cold plastic, and with some effort he managed to bring the phone to his ear lazily. "'Ello? I mean, ah, Kirkland speakin'."

"Mr. Kirklan'?" the speaker on the other line affirmed, and Arthur nodded before he realized that the person _probably_ couldn't see him. "This is Detective Williams. I'm with'a th' New York Police De'pa'ment—we're real sorry t' say this, but…"

Arthur's blood went cold at the pause. One of his many theories was that any call from the police at this time of night was not going to be good, that was for sure. (He was also a little scared to hear the bad news they were going to lay upon him, but don't tell anyone that.)

"…but, I'm jus' fuckin' wit'cha!" There was a sort of obnoxious laughter on the other side of the line, and Arthur blinked slowly. "Sorry cuzzo, it's jus' me. Alfred."

The plastic almost cracked in his grip. "I will disembowel you," Arthur said calmly. "Because it is early o'clock in the _bloody mornin'_ and you think it's real _nice_ to call me as some sort'a, I don't know, queer American ritual prank thing?"

Alfred laughed harder, and Arthur could just see the young man wiping the tears from his eyes under his glasses. "Whoo man, you'sa trip, dude," he replied, a little breathless. Yet, with a quick breath over the phone, his tone of voice made a complete degree turn that Arthur couldn't really remember at the moment. "But, seriously cuzzo, we gotta Code Crimson ova' he'ah. Real bad, man."

That was one of the things about Alfred that made the British man want to strangle his American ass. The man, being from and living in the Bronx all his life, had an accent that was as disgusting as it was amazing. Amazing to hear the murder of a once beautiful language, that is. In fact, give an American _any_ language, and they'll _find_ a way to bodge it up.

"…" Arthur closed his eyes and attempted to count to a billion. He gave up after eleven. "What the blast is a _Code Crimson_?"

"Code Crimson!" Alfred insisted, and Arthur tried to imagine him _dead_. "It's a code red—a code red for _murda'_!"

"What the f—"

"Okay, seriously serious this time. Um. I'm in th' slamma', and I need, er, uh. Bail?"

"…"

Arthur hung up the phone.

* * *

"Why the fuck'd ya wait a whole fuckin' day, douche?" Alfred raged about twelve hours later from the other side of the glass in the visitor's room.

Arthur stared at him for a long while. "Betta' question," he replied slowly, bringing a hand to his forehead—most specifically, his temples. "Why the _bloody hell_ are you 'ere? I cannot even _attempt_ to process _one reason_ why'a young, white man in New bloody _York_ would be arrested at, what, _early o'clock_ in the mornin'!"

"Dude, I stole'a car," Alfred explained. "And I would'a gotten away with it too—if it weren't for th' _stupid_ police!"

The British man paused in rubbing his temples. "You…_stole_ a car?" he repeated, furrowing his rather sizable eyebrows. "You _filched_ a _bloody vehicle_? What is _wrong_ with you?"

"It was for'a dare," the young man admitted, sighing. "I'm sorry, Artie."

"My God—I can_not_ believe I am related to such…_idiocy_!" Arthur snapped, pulling at his short locks of dirty blond hair. "You, my dear Alfred Francois Jones, are an _idiot_!"

"Hey! You leave m' middle name outta this, douche!" Alfred growled, standing up in his seat. "Or, should'a I say—Arthur _'Fairy Princess' _Kirklan_'_?"

"I will _annihilate_ you!"

"Sirs, ya both need to calm down befo' we hav'ta remove ya," the security guard commented weakly, and Arthur turned to look at him as slowly as was virtually possible. The guard seemed to tremble, and then stepped out of the visitor's room stuttering some poppycock about needing to polish his badge.

Alfred groaned, bumping his forehead against the glass. He slid down with an audible squeak, and ended his descent with a plop of his face to the wooden surface of the desk. "Get me outta he'ah, Artie," he whined, banging his forehead against the window repeatedly. "If'fa I stay too long—shit, I mean, look at my face, Artie!" He pointed furiously at his slightly tanned, better-than-average Caucasian visage. "Do ya see this?"

Arthur looked at his face from a general angle. "Ya look as stupid as ye did three seconds ago," he deadpanned. "What needs t' be different?"

"Art, ya may not undastand this, but I am fuckin' _beautiful_," the American man explained, pulling at his own cheek. "You really think someone _this_ gorgeous is gonna last a week in tha' shithole? No way, man. No way."

_Beauty is in the eye of the beholder._ Well, then it was no wonder that Alfred needed glasses.

"Regardless of your hideously disfigured face, I am still a wee bit _perplexed_ on why I am sittin' here in the precinct jail, talkin' to you behind an exceedingly thick slab of glass," the British man replied shortly.

"Are you tryin' t' say somethin' he'ah?" Alfred demanded, scowling. "Because I am _poiplexed_ on why you haven't posted m' bail yet."

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't get paid until Friday, twit," he explained in a particularly strained voice. "And I would've been willin' to get you out with my savin's, provided that this was a big mistake and ye didn't _need_ to be in jail." He stared directly into Alfred's clear blue eyes. "Unfortunately, that is not the case. I'll be back to get you on Friday, _cuzzo_." He stood up, taking a sort of sadistic pleasure in the mortified gape fixed onto his younger cousin's face. "Hopefully you learn your lesson about stupid dares this way, moron."

"Abba—wibba—you—" Alfred stammered, banging his fists on the surface of the desk. "Arthur! Artie! Cuzzo! _Come back_ man—I'm mad sexy for this jumpsuit, and these dudes prob' don' even rememba' what a vagina _looks_ like! _I love you!_"

Oh, the cries of pain from an American idiot. Arthur could think of nothing he loved the sound of more—wait, sorry, he forgot about The Beatles. He loved the sweet sounds of The Beatles for sure.

And so, Arthur took his leave from the visitor's room, with Alfred clawing at the glass and a promise of two whole days _without_ Alfred's inane phone calls or text messages or emails.

_So wonderful_. God, the possibilities of what he could do with his time! He could drink tea without a mocking tone discussing the greatness of coffee! He could watch the BBC in peace! He could possibly even enjoy a good night of knitting!

Alfred may need to stay in jail a little longer, the more Arthur thought about it.

Then again, the more Arthur thought, the more likely he was to stop paying attention to his surroundings, as noted in the following events.

"Hmmph!" the Englishman grunted, bumping rather roughly into another man. "My apologies," he automatically said, turning to look at the poor assaulted individual.

And then he realized that if he thought Alfred's eyes were a particularly nice shade of blue, he'd obviously never seen this bloke before.

The man with the intense blue eyes was just a bundle of adjectives, including tall, distinctly broad, clearly Caucasian, and he possessed blond hair that was fastidiously slicked back for optimal professionalism, probably. He just _seemed_ professional with the way he wore a suit like it was pressed seconds before he stepped into the police precinct.

"Not a problem," he replied in a slight German accent. "Please, excuse me, sir." He continued on his way.

Arthur watched him go for the sake of being curious, and then he simply shrugged it off as a normal occurrence between strangers.

Once he turned to walk, though, his flat, work shoes pressed against something that wasn't the floor.

"What's this?" the blond man muttered, bending down slightly to pick up the object. It was, firstly, rectangular. Covered by a black bag, the object fit in his hand much like a TV dinner would.

_This must be the German's,_ he immediately thought. Arthur turned around in order to call the man back, but the door slammed shut the moment he laid eyes on it.

Well, damn.

"Ach!" Arthur sniffed. "Well, obviously the bloke didn't need it that much anyway if he's just gonna _drop_ it and leave! I say, _America_."

With that, he tucked the box under his arm, and left the station with a jaunty whistle.

He'd just hold on to it for a while, until by some chance he met the German again.

* * *

It wasn't until two days later that he even _remembered_ he had the box.

"_Good morning, New York City! It is Friday—the best day of the week, amiright? Well, I hope you're ready to get your smog on, because this air can cause asthma in a second!_" the radio blared, as Arthur didn't have many options for his alarm. "_Wow, not only is acid rain a definite maybe—but these immigrants are comin' in like flies! I feel like I'm gonna lose my job some day—_" A hand slammed onto the entirety of the alarm's surface, and Arthur _hoped_ that the dismiss button was somewhere in the area.

"Hermm," he groaned, slapping the back of his hand against his forehead. "I _hate_ Fridays."

Actually, it was probably important for one to know that Arthur Kirkland hated _all_ days. _Even Saturdays_.

("Wakin' up is a bloody chore," he once explained to Alfred, who was probably not listening at the time. "And the Spainards downstairs make the loudest bloody noises! How can I enjoy a day that starts so badly every time?")

Speaking of Alfred—_shite_.

"Oh damn," Arthur muttered, hitting the back of his head against his pillow. Repeatedly. "Of all the days—"

His cellular phone started ringing. Arthur cursed up a storm before picking it up slowly and bringing it to his ear at an equally leisurely pace.

"…'Ello?" he greeted in the blandest, most unimpressed voice he had in his arsenal.

"Artie, cuzzo!" Alfred's exuberant voice cried back, and Arthur's face dropped into a deep frown. "Guess what t'day is? If you guessed _'Alfred's Bail Day,'_ you were right fo' once in ya douchebag life! _Congratulations!_"

The Englishman closed his eyes and counted to ten. He gave up after three. "Smashing," he replied with a deceptively calm tone of voice.

Why couldn't Alfred've done something crazy like start a dogfight or kill a man? Then the jailtime would've been for, well, _ever_ and Arthur would have been lonely for the rest of his default miserable life. (And, yes, he was aware that he forced himself to be miserable—no need being happy and getting your hopes up for nothing, really.)

"Up, up!" Alfred crowed, cackling like he won the lottery by cheating. "I've gotta date wit' some Mickey D's, man—and you're'a the _chaffeur_!"

"My God, you are such an _arse_," Arthur whispered, closing his eyes. "It is almost…_amazing_."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm an amazing kinda guy. Now get'cha English ass outta bed—you promised me bail, man!"

Arthur took in a deep breath and hung up the phone. Double _shite_—there goes his happiness for the rest of his life.

Stumbling out of bed with an almost insufferable yet sudden headache, the blond man wandered into his bathroom to take a slash and to punch himself in the face, as that was the only way he could wake up and go about his day with his normal formidable scowl. Then, he brushed his teeth, combed his hair, patted down his eyebrows a bit, and gargled mouthwash.

(He liked to think the American opinion of English dental hygiene needed to be proved _horribly wrong_ sometimes, really.)

Arthur then felt the need to explore his kitchen for edible food and a cup of tea before he posted bail for the bane of his existence.

"Damned Americans and their bloody laws," he muttered spitefully as he dragged his feet across his apartment to the small kitchen. With a forceful swing, he forced the freezer door of his refrigerator open.

And he suddenly realized that he had a _lot_ of TV dinners.

"Stouffer's, Stouffer's, Stouffer's, _Stouffer's_, Hungry Man—what the hell is that doin' in here—oh, _Stouffer's_ again," Arthur announced quietly, cocking an eyebrow at the sheer amount of one particular brand of microwavable dinners he possessed. The Hungry Man, though, was rather random. As well, the box with the black plastic bag covering it's entirety was also a little out there—to the point that Arthur picked it up and ripped off the dark plastic.

He stared at the box in his hands, a frown on his lips. "_Stouffer's_?" he read aloud, disgusted. "Where am I getting' all o' this bloody food from?"

He stuffed it back into the freezer with a sigh.

_Guess I'll just stop by McDonald's_.

* * *

"I stole'a car, got thrown in jail!" Alfred sang as Arthur sat behing the glass screen once more. "But m' cuzzo's so great he posted bail! I love ya, Artie—you're so fun! Even though ya look like you want ya head to a gun!"

"You went off-beat," Arthur commented calmly. "And your rhythm didn't fit ya new rhymes. Keep the singin' to the professionals, ah?"

The bespectacled man shrugged, laughing boisterously. "Eh, whateva'. I'm jus' happy t' be leavin', man." He stretched lazily, a grin on his lips.

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, already regretting his honorable decision. "Don't cock up again, Alfred," he threatened with a scowl. "I can _assure_ you that I will not put nearly as much of an effort into postin' ye bail again if you end up stealin' another vehicle. Good day." He stood up, turned around, walked towards the door, and was completely and totally ready to make a dignified exit.

At least, until the boom of an unnaturally _enraged_ voice nearly shattered the glass all around him.

"Whaddaya mean ya can't find th' package? Yer such'a fuckin' dumbass, Ludwig—m' brotha' probably jus' keeps ya around fo' ya _cock_, asshat!"

That rage was so…completely _unnecessary_, Arthur thought. It was _so_ out of place that he ended up turning around and poking his head around the wall of the booth with the source of the sound.

A built, blond man was sitting at the desk, rubbing his temples as the other auburn-haired man continued to scream and rant.

Ironically enough, the yelling was coming from a man who not only looked like he was the size of a fifteen-year-old girl, but also carried the air of a child fond of temper tantrums.

God, Arthur wished _he_ could still pull off a tantrum.

"If you don't shut the hell up," a deep, almost painfully familiar voice replied calmly. "I'll find a way to punch through this glass and slap you. I can _promise_ you this, Lovino."

Arthur looked at the man who was sitting on the visitor's side of the booth. The blond hair wasn't _as_ slicked back, and he wasn't wearing a suit like last time, choosing instead to don a simple outfit of a black tee and jeans—but the Englishman was assured that this was the German man who dropped that particular box two days ago.

"If ya even _looked_ at me wrong, I'd stab th' _shit_ outta—"

"Excuse me sir," Arthur interrupted as quickly as possible. That Lovino character did not look very pleased at the moment, and he did not desire to hear the gory details of 'Ludwig's end. "Hello, yes, I apologize for cuttin' off yer conversation." He held out his hand. "Arthur Kirkland."

The German man looked a little confused, but shook his hand anyway. "Ludwig von Beillschmidt," he replied curtly. "May I ask why you are conversing with myself?"

"I wonderin' that too," Lovino spoke up, and Ludwig threw him an absolutely _filthy_ look of evil. "Shit man, he pops up outta nowhere while I'm yellin' at ya—it'sa little we'ehd, Ludwig."

"Which I understand," Arthur agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. He couldn't bring himself to smile for politeness though, and he looked into Ludwig's amazingly blue eyes. It might have been virtually possible to actually get _lost_ in this bloke's eyes—seriously! "But, I feel obligated to inform you that I might 'ave a certain box o' ya's. We bumped into each otha'a couple'a days ago, and ya dropped it. I picked it up, tried to give it back, but ye were gone." He shook his head. "So, I kept it. It's a sort'a TV dinner, I know—I can't rememba' the name o' it at the moment, but I think it was—"

Ludwig and Lovino both cut him off with a passion never seen before in his twenty-six years of life. "And what was your name again?" Ludwig asked with a subdued panic, but his eyes were wide.

Lovino was standing up. "Get his fuckin' name, asswipe!" he hissed like he was telling a secret.

The German banged on the glass. "Shut up, moron," he snapped, and turned back to Arthur. "Um, I'm sorry for my associate. He isn't very smart, see—"

"I understand." God, did he understand. "I'm Arthur Kirkland."

Ludwig stood up, a painfully serious expression on his face Arthur also noticed that the man towered over him—not that it was terribly difficult. "Thank you, Mr. Kirkland," he said, shaking the British man's hand shortly. "We'll be by as soon as possible to pick it up." And he practically ran out of the visitor's room.

Arthur watched him go, his hand suspended in the air.

"But," he spoke without thinking. "You…don't know where I live."

**The Kirkland Theory — END**

* * *

So ends the first chapter to a very silly experiment.

As I have noticed over time, most Hetalia American-based AUs take place in, of course, New York City. While I usually hate conforming to the norm in fanfiction ways, I shall not be different—but I will use more than just _Manhattan_. I also ABSOLUTELY ADORE writing out accents, because I like to repeat them out loud in exaggerated dialects as I type. The New York accent will be consistent in this, I can assure you. As well as some thick English, because I can listen to The Hoosiers sing mimicries for hours man

The TV dinners are actually VERY IMPORTANT to the plot. REMEMBER THAT lololol


	2. The Beillschmidt Method

**The Collective Analysis of a Former Delinquent**

Oh chapter two

Lovino and Ludwig DO NOT make good mafia partners man—they'd be so awesome by themselves, but together it's like suckaroni and cheese man

The TV dinner is so important you will never even realize

_

* * *

2 – The Beillschmidt Method_

It was close to some time in the late evening, early night when Ludwig von Beillschmidt checked his watch for the fourth time.

"Come on, come on, come _on_," he chanted quietly, pacing the small living room with a small limp. (He banged his knee against the coffee table earlier in his anxiety, but that was okay—pain was _nothing_ in comparison to what the boss could do to him if he somehow managed screwed this up.) "Come on!"

Then, his phone crooned the sweet sounds of Kool Savas to signify an incoming call.

Ludwig nearly did a backflip in surprise.

With shaky fingers, he flipped open the small cellular phone. "_Guten tag_," he greeted coolly, even though he didn't feel nearly as confident as per usual.

"Ludwig?" and that was the sound of Kiku Honda, a young Japanese-American hailing from the coast of California, and the one man Ludwig wanted to speak to the most at the moment. "Firstly, good evening. Secondly, about this _Arthur Kirkland_—"

"Did you find out where he lives?" Ludwig asked immediately, halting on the floor. "Is it in the Bronx? Long Island? Yonkers?"

He realized, though, that he sounded kind of desperate, and thereby decided to _tone it down_ a bit, because Kiku's reply was a bit overwhelmed. "Yonkers isn't a part of New York City," the Japanese man said slowly, as though he weren't quite sure if that was the right answer himself. "But, I did find out where he lives, which is somewhere in Queens near the Middle Village neighborhood. I feel it imperative to warn you, my friend—Mr. Kirkland, despite living in this cesspool of a country since his high school years, appears to possess a sort of…diplomatic immunity. I would suggest that you try not to kill him."

Ludwig huffed, deciding then to sit on the single couch in the room. "We do not kill a man unless the boss orders us to," he explained. "You know this—and he _rarely_ wants to kill people."

"He's…an odd man."

"_Extremely._"

And so the two men basked in their companionable silence, because their boss really was an incredibly weird man. He tried to name the mafia, 'Axis,' purely for the fact that it sounded _cool_, for the Lord's sake!

"Regardless, don't kill Mr. Kirkland," Kiku continued, a sigh likely on the edge of his lips. "Not only would the boss have a very sad face, but the government might—ah, well, I believe you would know the end to this poem."

Ludwig nodded, even though Kiku probably couldn't see him. (He said 'probably' because _who knew_ what kind of weird, kinky cameras the man had hidden _anywhere_?)

"Thank you, Kiku," he said gratefully, and he checked his watch once more. "I am forever obliged that you did this for me."

"Think nothing of it, my friend," Kiku replied blandly. "I shall see you in, oh, a few hours?"

"Likely." Ludwig shrugged. "_Gute nacht_."

"The sentiment is returned." And the man hung up. He hung up rather gently, Ludwig felt with a frown—it was as though he was holding the phone like one would hold a newborn child.

Not that anyone should put that pass Kiku—the man was socially retarded and extremely fragile in looks and personality. If he ended up, by some inane reason, dropping the phone or something like that—he would probably have a terrible case of cardiac arrest and end up in a coma. No, really, everyone in Ludwig's social circle that was also on acceptable terms with Kiku could vouch for that theory.

Speaking of theories—it was time for him to get going.

He had a weird looking British man to assault.

(In theory, not physically, that is!)

* * *

"We'ah goin' t' assault this asshole in _theory_?" Lovino repeated, his voice slightly muffled.

Ludwig rubbed his temples, looking everywhere but _at_ the Italian man. Good Lord, there was nobody in this world who simultaneously enraged and impressed the German so well—that is, impressed him with mere concentrated _stupidity_. The man should have stayed in jail, for all he cared. "As in, we are going to enter his home without asking," he explained carefully. "And then we are going to try our best and scare the man a bit so that he doesn't inform the police in fear of what more we could do to him. Lovino—would you take that damnned thing off of your face? You come across like a pervert, not a high-end gangster."

Lovino snorted, refitting his balaclava around his neck. "Shit man, I have this _thing_'a where I don't really wanna get caught by th' coppa's, right?" he said sarcastically. "See, I'm part'a this gang—this _mafia_ even, where m' brotha' is the _big man_ and all that jazz. So, I'm just gonna _eliminate_ the whole fuckin' process of bein' seen, ah?"

"You look like a moron."

"And ya look like a douchebag, but am I complainin'? Nah, I got _betta_' things t' do, asswipe." The auburn-haired man then obviously felt it necessary to erect his middle finger in Ludwig's general direction.

Ludwig, in response, sniffed in an uppity way while fixing his suit jacket. He, personally, felt it better to dress as though he had some class, really. A suit jacket, black slacks, a perfectly pressed white shirt, and a gun in a holster under the jacket—it likely made people feel better about themselves when they saw how nice _he_ looked, and he didn't even do very legal work!

Lovino cut off his train of thought, though, by going to his refrigerator and rifling through his very sparse, very German food. "You got the address, douchebag?" he asked nonchalantly, throwing a single potato out of the way.

"…" Ludwig counted backwards to three. And then he succeeded, which made him feel slightly better. "I'm going to need you to pick up that potato," he replied patiently, but then decided to pick up the potato himself. "And then I'm going to tell you that, yes, I did get some semblance of the address."

"Whaddaya mean, _semblance_?" the Italian man demanded, pulling out a long-necked bottle of imported beer. He grimaced, and then _threw it_ behind his back. Ludwig—in a fine show of physical fitness, he liked to think—dove to the ground and held out his hands. The bottle hit his chest, but at least it didn't spill. "Eitha' ya got the address, or ya _don't_."

_He's the boss's brother, he's the boss's brother—you love the boss more than you love the thought of Lovino's blood staining your hands, you love the boss more than you love anything including Lovino's death regardless!_

Ludwig closed his eyes and breathed slowly. "Get your grubby, disgusting, _moronic_ hands out of my refrigerator," he said with an almost deadly calm, a vein throbbing on his neck somewhere in all his held-back rage. "And if you manage to make it back into my house again, I will turn you into the Berlin Wall the moment you step into my kitchen."

Lovino stared at him, his light brown eyes wide. "…" He slowly closed the refrigerator. "Whathafuck does that even _mean_, asshole?" he demanded, but still wisely stepped out of his kitchen with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

With a short glare at the smaller man, Ludwig stalked to his refrigerator and replaced the beer and potato. "You'll find out," he replied curtly, shutting the fridge door ominously. (He actually had no idea what 'turning someone into the Berlin Wall' would consist of, but everyone would agree that it sounded kind of horrible.)

He turned around, fixing his jacket once more. "Now, come on, you insufferable Guido," he said, walking past the Italian man. "We've got things to do."

"Yeah, yeah," Lovino snorted, rolling his eyes. He readjusted his balaclava, _again_, and followed the German man. "Ya still neva' told me the address to this douchebag, asshat."

Ludwig sighed, opening the door that led out of his house and out of his safe zone forever. "Kiku sent it to me in a text message," he explained. "And, err, it's a little…_Kiku-esque_, I'd have to say."

"Ya can't understand it?"

"I said nothing of the sort, moron." But it was true—he _couldn't_ understand the message. Who sends an address in the structure of a haiku? _Weird_ but _oddly lovable_ people, that's who. "But, you can attempt to decipher it if you so please." He pulled his phone from his pocket and tossed it to the Italian behind him.

Lovino caught it readily, flipping it open as soon as his hand enclosed the metal casing. "This shit is so old," he commented offhandedly, and Ludwig felt his hand twitch. "'s like, ya still usin' a _flip phone_? Come'on, ya get paid enough to send'a whore to college, and ya wanna keep _this_ crap? And whassup with all these texts to m' brotha'? You think we don't know you two're fuckin'? Ya gotta be kiddin' me!"

"Stop going through my texts," Ludwig replied, breathing for the _ultimate_ meditation technique. "Before I manage to throw you outta the window!" And he lived on the eighth floor too? Man, gravity would have a field day.

"Geez!" Lovino huffed. "Fine—ya tightassed bastahd." He held the phone higher to his face, squinting his eyes to read the poem. "_Take eighty four steps, to see the haven of wood, circling Dana's court_."

See—what kind of address was _that_?

"It's Eighty-Four Dana Coi'cle," Lovino explained, rolling his eyes like he couldn't believe Ludwig didn't understand that. "Shit man, that wasn't hard at all!"

"How the _hell_ did you figure that out?" Ludwig demanded, holding out his hand in a silent demand for his cellular phone. "It's a _haiku_—don't you know how _vague_ haikus can get?"

"I'mma fuckin' _guru_ at Woi'ld Literat'cha," the small man replied with a shrug, returning the small phone to the blond man. "I could be related to Giacomo Leopardi for all I know!"

Ludwig didn't really know who that guy was, but he kept that fact to himself for now.

"Hmmph." He pocketed his phone and took the first step through the doorway. A shiver encased his body for a mere second, and he somehow felt like his life was about to change _so hard_. "Huh." He shrugged the feeling off. "Let's go, Guido."

"Right behind ya, Nazi."

* * *

For some reason, Ludwig was having the strangest feeling that the door in front of him was this Arthur Kirkland's apartment.

"What kinda douchebag _embroida's_ on their door?" Lovino asked, pulling up his balaclava just to expose his incredulous expression. "It's, like, _half_ gay and _half_ stupid."

"Which sounds like an accurate description of your composition," Ludwig replied offhandedly, and then proceeded to ignore his partner's snarls and growls in favor of wrapping his hand around the doorknob. "Remember, Lovino—do not injure the man," he said quietly. "We have to be quiet, and generally sneaky in a way."

"But whattabou' th' assault—"

"That's only if he _sees_ us." Ludwig resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, why would they assault a man who was likely lying in bed, awaiting another day in his menial life. "So, yes. That's why it is _theoretical_." He jerked at the doorknob, only to realize that the door was locked.

Which, generally, made sense. Since Mr. Kirkland was living in Queens and all.

(Queens wasn't as dangerous as it used to be—most New Yorkers agreed Giuliani to be the reason for that. The real crime was more underground—this mafia was stationed in Manhattan anyway.)

"_Scheisse_!" he cursed, reverting to German purely through frustration. He wasn't good with breaking through doors and all of that madness.

(Ludwig was a professional at but not limited to: beating the shit out of people, intimidating people, talking to people, making business transactions with people, organizing files in more orders than possible, avoiding Jewish neighborhoods, beating his potatoes before eating them, and singing karaoke of American and German hip hop.)

With another jiggle of the brass knob, he sighed. "Okay. The door is locked."

Lovino stared at him. "Whad'ja expect?" he asked carefully, as though the German man were a ticking bomb. "An automatic door?"

"No." Ludwig rubbed his temples, breathing evenly as best he could. This job was more stressful than anyone would ever think. "I, err, uhm. I am not a very efficient thief, so I have not many ideas on opening this door."

The auburn-haired man blinked, probably amazed that Ludwig admitted one weakness of his to him. "Ey, uh, no biggie," he replied cautiously, eyes narrowed. "I'mma, uh, pretty good." He pulled off the balaclava from his head, shaking his hair out of it's stiff position through habit. With a gloved hand, he threaded his fingers through his hair and fished out a small hairclip from within the loose strands. "Lemme try, asshole."

Ludwig moved out of the way silently, watching the man with observant blue eyes. Lovino did have his moments of usefulness, as could be assumed (despite how they seemed to be few and far in between).

After a good thirty seconds, there was a beautiful _click_ of sound, and the Italian clicked his tongue proudly. "We're in, douche," he announced, opening the door. "So, uh. Yeah. Whaddaya we do now?"

Ludwig pushed the door open further. "We rummage aimlessly through Mr. Kirkland's things," he explained thoughtfully. "Until we find what we are looking for."

* * *

"I can't find anything!" Lovino snapped, throwing a sofa cushion halfway across the room. "Shit, man—whaddafuck are we even lookin' for?"

"If I remember correctly, it was likely a small box." Ludwig could not, though, remember what Mr. Kirkland said per say—he rushed out rather quickly in order to get the info on the man. "And this apartment has an odd amount of doors." Everything was covered by a door—one couldn't tell a dining room from a bedroom in this apartment!

"Iknorite?" the auburn-haired man huffed. "I'mma 'boutta kick one'o these open and see if it's, like, the kitchen or somethin'."

And so, Ludwig watched with a slight bit of horror as Lovino stomped to the closest door to himself and raised his foot. "Wait, you're—"

He kicked the door with an obscene amount of force, and the wood splintered against the feel of his boot before the poor part swung open. And loudly at that.

Arthur Kirkland's eyes flew open, and Ludwig knew it was time to theoretically assault him.

"Wha—what the bloody hell?" the man exclaimed, sitting up in his bed. Once he laid eyes on Lovino, though—that's when all hell broke loose. "Aaah! _Aaaah_! _AAAAH_!" Kirkland began to scream at a rather high pitched tone, kicking his covers off his legs and exposing the fact that he slept in nary but his boxers. "_Aaaah_ I'm bein' robbed! Swindled! _Filched_! A Guido broke int'a me home, and I'm 'bout t' get raped! _AAAAH_!"

"Quit screamin', ya limey!" Lovino snapped, stomping his foot in annoyance. "No one's gonna rape _your_ eyebrowed-ass, man! Shit, where's the package, ya fruit?"

The British man was not very impressed with Ludwig's partner, it seemed. "I don't know that the hell you speak of, ye American _weirdo_!" Kirkland snarled, shaking his fist threateningly. "Get outta me flat befo' I call the heat! I'm warnin' ye, with ya twelve-year-old lookin' arse!"

"Bitch, I will—"

"Mr. Kirkland," obviously, it was time for Ludwig to stop watching the terribly interesting soap opera. "Firstly, hello." He smiled, even though he wasn't used to doing so. Kirkland looked a little uncomfortable (at least moreso than currently), so it probably looked a bit weird. "You may remember me—Ludwig von Beillschmidt?"

"Y-yeah, you're the barmy German that I tried to give yer dinna' back to!" Kirkland snarled, furrowing his rather sizable eyebrows. "I should'a never trusted ya! You tell an American you found their shite? They break int'a yer house! How _backwards_ is this country, ah? I'll tell ye—"

"Shut the _fuck up_ man," Lovino cut him off, rubbing his temples through the black cloth of the balaclava. "I mean, shit!"

Kirkland snorted, rolling his eyes. "And what's up with the silly ski mask on yer face? Ye look like a _pervert_, not'ta robba'!"

Ludwig shrugged. "Which is what I told him," he said.

"Shut the hell up!" Lovino turned around just the flip his middle finger at the German man. He returned his attention to the Englishman. "Where th' hell is this dinna' ya speak of?"

"In my freezer." Kirkland gave the two men a certain '_Duh_' look, as though it were obvious.

The larger blond sighed, fixing his suit jacket. "There are so many doors here that you will find it rather unbelievable for us to _not know where your kitchen is located_," he replied quite calmly, really. "So, if you would please…?"

"It's, err, the first door from the front door on the right," Kirkland said, blinking.

Lovino had shoved Ludwig (whom of which was about a foot taller and _many_ pounds heavier) out of the way in order to storm through the apartment. With the sounds of destruction following the man's wake, the blond man heard a few cries of profanity, such as, "Whothafuck leaves an _enti'ah_ tea cup set near their table? Shit, I almost broke that crap!" and "It's called mothafuckin' _socca'_ ya British douchebag!"

"Ya sound like Alfred, you insufferable twit!" Kirkland cried back, obviously ready to fight a Brooklyn-born Italian-American. Not that it was a good idea, but Ludwig would pay to see the end of that kind of battle. (Especially considering how Lovino was five foot five, ninty-eight pounds, and Kirkland was about the same size, perhaps an inch taller.)

Ludwig, though, cut off all these thoughts when the Italian actually sounded a little bothered. Like, _really_ bothered. "Yo, Nazi—we gotta problem, he'ah!"

_Oh god, nothing ever goes right when Lovino is involved_, Ludwig thought, but not for the first time. He nodded at Kirkland, his smile dropped, and walked over to the open kitchen door stiffly. "What is the issue, idiot?" he asked.

Lovino pointed to the inside of the freezer, and Ludwig actually looked.

_Oh, goddamn it._

"Who _eats_ this much Stouffer's?" Ludwig demanded, raking his fingers through his hair and ruining his slicked-back style. "My Lord, it is like he doesn't even cook!"

There was a small cough from the direction of Kirkland, but he decided to ignore it.

Lovino growled, his teeth clenched. "This is gonna get _so stupid_," he muttered, and so did the one thing that is useless in any other situation but now.

He began to throw the food out of the freezer.

"Stouffer's, Stouffer's, Stouffer's, _Stouffer's_," Lovino named them off as he tossed the red TV dinner boxes behind his back. They landed on the floor, one by one, and Ludwig felt for Kirkland for a mere second. "Stouffer's, Stouffer's, Stouffer's, Hungry-Man—yo, whatthafuck is that doin' he'ah—Stouffer's, Stouffer's—"

"Wait!" Ludwig snapped, grabbing Lovino's arm as he prepared to throw yet another Stouffer's. "Did you say _Hungry-Man_?"

"Yeah, I saw one—outta freakin' _nowhere_, it was like duck-duck-goose all ova' again—"

The German bent down on his knees to shift through the boxes of microwavable food. "It's so different," he explained. "That it just might be the package we are looking for. Would the boss _really_ transport it in a Stouffer's box?" He grabbed the long blue box, a frown on his lips.

Lovino looked hesitant. "Damn," he cursed, putting the box in his hand back in the freezer. "Okay asshat, ya might be right. Fer once in ya stupid life." He pulled up his balaclava, shaking out his hair once more. "Then, let's get outta he'ah befo' he calls the cops!"

"Too _late_, ya conniving Guido!" Kirkland called back, and the Italian seemed to have to hold himself back from killing the man.

Ludwig stood up, the TV dinner clenched tightly in his hands. "Mr. Kirkland," he announced loudly. "We'll be back soon to assist you in…cleaning up." He walked to the bedroom door, poking his head in and looking Kirkland in the eyes. "Cleaning up your house, that is."

Kirkland opened his mouth, but then the German opened his jacket a bit more on the left of his torso. The British man looked down, looked back into his eyes, looked down again, and squeaked.

"Ach," he coughed, and Ludwig nodded.

"Have a good night, Mr. Kirkland." So, Ludwig took his leave behind Lovino in a manner calmer than his true feelings.

Once the apartment door was closed, the two men broke into a harried run towards the elevator.

"I seriously hope we got th' right package," Lovino said, looking up at his larger partner.

Ludwig nodded, feeling an odd sensation in his mind. "I would hope to god," he replied.

**The Beillschmidt Method – END**

* * *

Yeah I just really believe that if Lovino and Ludwig were to be in the same gang or whatever, it would suck SO BADLY because Ludwig would be awesome at intimidation and Lovino would be sexy at larceny, but they are so DIFFERENT and Feliciano would only pair them because he wants them to get along, but their arguments hold up so much progress

_SONG QUIZ TIMEZ_! This is the part where you guess the missing part to one of my favorite songs and marvel at how easy it is because the word is almost always in the chapter!

"In December, drinking Horchata, I'd look psychotic in a (blank)"  
WHAT IS THE MISSING WORD? Guess, or find out next time! Extra points if you can guess the name of the artist as well

As well, the TV dinner? It's the main character, fer sure

Next chapter is Alfred's POV. As well, CHARACTER INTRO woo hoo


	3. The Jones Development

**The Collective Analysis of a Former Delinquent **

What are the haps my friends

Who's ready for some delicious BAD CRIME eh

And when I say "delicious" I mean TV DINNER say what

I also hope you guys realize that the chapter name corresponds with the chapter's character POV :D

_

* * *

3 – The Jones Development_

Since he didn't own a watch, Alfred F. Jones could only guess the time when he was accidentally mauled by a very silly looking pair to be about late o'clock on a Friday in November.

"Watch where ya goin', asswipe!" he snapped, straightening his zip-up hoodie and glaring quite heatedly at the short, reddish-brown-haired male that looked about ready to fuck him up. "Geez, keep ya head in that ass of yours all the time—you'se gonna bump int'a the wrong guy, douche!"

The little man snarled and spit at him, much like a disgruntled cat. "Gimme three seconds and'a crowbar, Ludwig," he growled, trying to fight the one-armed hold of his much larger friend. "I'm serious! I can kill this asshole in no time flat, just gimme a chance!"

Alfred laughed at that, throwing his head back and raking his fingers through his frazzled blond hair. "Kid, you'se like three feet and an inch," he commented, a grin on his lips. "But, I'll get on my knees, so you can hit my chin, all right?"

"I'm _twenty-two_, ya ass!"

Twenty-two? Alfred stared at the man, whom of which was probably Italian if that attitude and those facial features were anything to go by. He looked more like a teenager—a fourteen-year-old girl, even! Yet, in all honesty, Alfred would have guessed him to be about eighteen or his age, really.

"I'm nineteen," he replied, feeling that maybe the man'll have a better day—night—_whatever_—by knowing there are people in the world more awesome than him (and younger too). "So, um. Awesome?"

His larger, more distinguished and fancy partner seemed to resist rolling his eyes. "Sorry sir, but we'll be taking our leave now," the blond man spoke up with the coolest-sounding German accent, and the he actually _picked up_ his little friend with his right arm alone. Alfred inwardly gasped, for either Little Guido was, like, stupid weightless or Big Jerry spent more time at the gym than he did existing.

The American man squinted through his glasses, eying the aforementioned German. There was something really familiar about this guy—something _criminal_ yet _dangerous_ and _possibly homosexual_. "Yo, ain't you in that gang?" he asked curiously, poking the man's bicep. "Ya know, the one run by the Italians—somethin' with'a _A_ or _V…_shit man, I forget."

Then, Alfred realized how _beautiful_ this man's blue eyes were when they looked dead at him and stared into his soul. "No," replied the German curtly, and he dragged his partner away, leaving the nineteen-year-old standing in the middle of a sidewalk somewhere in Queens.

That…that probably wasn't very safe, so he snapped out of his infatuation with the most perfect eyes _ever_, zipped up his hoodie higher upon his neck, and scuffled over to his older cousin's place. He had a bone to pick with Arthur about changing his apartment locks while he was in jail—shit, you'd think Alfred were going to prison for _life_ with how happy the Englishman was.

It was only a slight thought that he noticed the two men came from the direction of 84 Dana Circle, but he bypassed it as unimportant.

Because, _really_, this was Arthur—he was the most _un_threatening thing Queens had to offer. What would a gang want with _him_?

* * *

"Yo, yo, cuzzo!" Alfred sang as he kicked open the front door. "Guess who's back? It ain't Shady, but he's white and workin' like fuckin' A for awesome, man!"

He looked around the apartment. "Shit, you throw'a pahty and not invite me?" he demanded loudly, staring at the complete _disarray_ that was Arthur Kirkland's current living quarters. "I am th' _life_ of every pahty, Artie! Kesha got nothin' on me, lemme tells ya—"

"Shut the 'ell up, ye moronic Yank," his utterly lovable (and horribly grouchy) cousin, Arthur, snarled. The bedroom door was open, but the British man stumbled out of the bathroom in nothing but a pair of red and blue boxer-briefs.

Alfred's completely needed opinion? Gayest underwear after spandex, like seriously.

"Aw man, ya look a little outta it an' shit," the bespectacled man said sympathetically. "But, I'mma sorry f' missin' the pahty ya threw f' my jail bail. Was it a suh'prise pahty?"

Arthur looked ready for a homicide. "There was no bloody party!" he raged, stomping towards him with anger strumming his every move. The man, whom of which was twenty-three, stood in front of Alfred with as much intimidation as he could probably muster.

The problem was, though, that Arthur claimed in the name of every God he knew that he was the same height as Alfred, but realistically the man came to his chin. Alfred kind of had to bend his knees to look him in his green eyes. "Then, uh," he scratched the back of his neck, looking around the living once more. "_What're th' haps_?"

"The bloody _'aps_ are a robbery!" Arthur snapped, grabbing Alfred's hoodie in his oddly strong grip. "I've been molested, Alfred! Violated, touched inappropriately, _raped_!"

"I gotta feelin' that no one would rape ya with a ten-foot pole," Alfred commented offhandedly, but regretted that statement after the short man nearly strangled him with his own clothing. "Okay, okay—I'm kiddin', ya douche! Shit, quit tryin'a kill me with ya hands and ya _eyes_ and ya—wait, put some clothes on man!"

Arthur breathed, closing his eyes and letting go of Alfred's poor hoodie. "The mafia," he said simply, rubbing his temples. "I was assaulted by th' Italian mafia."

Alfred stared at him. "Ya want me t' believe the Italian mafia came int'a ya apah'ment, trashed _everything_ I can see, scared ya int'a not notifying th' coppa's, and then touched _you_ inappropriately?" he asked slowly, squinting his blue eyes at the Englishman in front of him.

"I don't mean rape as in _me_, you idiot," Arthur snapped, throwing a weak punch at Alfred's stomach. "They've molested me _livelihood_—my poor flat, lookat'it!" He gestured frantically to the entirety of the living room, as though Alfred never noticed the party-esque surroundings.

Huh, that was weird. "So. Ya…_haven't_ been touched?"

"No."

"Good." Alfred paused. "Not that anyone would rape ya anyway, 'cause, shit, lookit those _eyebrows_—ack pain hurt pain!"

"What is it that you were sayin'?"

"Don't walk outside dressed like'a slut o' else you'll get assaulted!" the American yelped, and Arthur released the tight hold he had on his poor nipples. Alfred rubbed the poor man-teats—that was a truly painful experience as noted in the past! "Jesus Christ, Artie. _Ow_. Nipples? They kinda _hurt_ when, ya know, _abused_. _Ow_."

The shorter man snorted, brushing his hands together. "Oh, posh," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're a strappin' young man with a bit too much time on ye hands. You'll heal."

"Thanks fo' th' sentiment." Alfred sniffed, holding his chest much like a woman would hold her breasts in a bikini fitting contest. Actually, that probably wasn't a good comparison, because he wasn't sure if competitions like those existed and if they did, why would women hold their breasts up like he did? "Anyway! Let's get back t' business, cuzzo." He looked at the couch, frowning. "What _really_ happened he'ah?"

"I've told you!" Arthur insisted, gesticulating wildly. "The Italian mafia ransacked me flat!"

By this point, Alfred was already wandering towards the kitchen, but that didn't mean he wasn't listening to his crazy older cousin. "Wha'd they take, then?" he asked, even though he didn't really believe Arthur's story. He opened the kitchen door with a slight push, and felt his breath hitch in his throat at the pure carnage. _Dude._ _Whoa_. "What th' _fuck_ jus' happened in he'ah?"

"Ransacked." Arthur said once more, huffing and crossing his arms. Alfred, though, held back a small snicker, because here stood a grown, white man in the middle of his topsy-turvy living room in only his underwear. Now _that_ is a picture he'd love to have framed for blackmail purposes.

But! Back to the matter at hand—this kitchen was _fucked up_, and that was putting it lightly. The freezer was open, the cabinents were all askew, the floor was littered in Stouffer's, and Arthur's teapot was in the wrong spot.

He couldn't believe it, but the place really _was_ ransacked!

"Why didn't ya call th' coppa's?" Alfred demanded, whirling around as though it was his apartment that was assaulted. He narrowly escaped stepping on a box of Stouffer's Lasagna, and turned back to the open freezer. He stared, scratching the back of my head. "Wait'taminnit…"

"They had _guns_ Alfred," Arthur explained, pulling at his short locks of hair with a pained expression. "Guns that had the capacity t' _kill_ me. I'm just'a 'nother white man t' those…_vagrants_! What've I done t' _deserve_ such a terrible life?"

Alfred ignored him, his eyebrows furrowed. "Dude," he said, reaching into the freezer and pulling out yet another box of Stouffer's. Then he threw it into the pile on the floor and grabbed another. And another. And _another_. "Where th' hell is my Hungry-Man, man?"

His cousin closed his mouth with an audible snap of his teeth, staring at him incredulously. "_What_?" he asked slowly, stepping closer to the kitchen. "The _hell_?"

"My Hungry-Man!" the younger man cried, throwing the last Stouffer's to the ground. The freezer was pretty much bare at this point, save for a can of orange concentrate and maybe a bag of fries. "Y'know ya can't cook worth'a shit, man—yo, drop the vase, Artie! It ain't that serious!" Alfred sighed in relief when Arthur put down the long-necked vase, still glaring at him evilly. "So, I keep'a TV dinna' o' my own in ya fridge, see?"

"Ye put _your_ dirty American food in _my_ refrigerata'?" Arthur demanded, ready to kill.

Alfred snorted. "Stouffa's is American, douchebag," he said calmly. He looked it up on Wikipedia once—he knew what he was talking about.

"…" the Englishman, if nothing else, had the amazing ability to cede whenever he was truly wrong. "Anyway, ransacked! Me flat will neva' be th' same, Alfred!"

"My Hungry-Man is missin'," the younger man complained, shutting the freezer angrily. "Did'ja eat my food, asshole?"

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. "I'd never _touch_ a product with'a name like _Hungry-Man_," he deadpanned. Then, he tapped his chin, frowning. "In fact, earli'ah t'day when I was about to go to th' jail fer ya ungrateful bail, I did a quick ganda' at me freezer."

"What'd ya find?" Alfred asked, hands stuffed in his pockets. This was starting to feel like a mystery, if he had to be completely honest. "Did'ja see my Hungry-Man?"

"Actually, _yes_." His cousin blinked, looking oddly enlightened. "…I _did_ see ye Hungry-Man—which means th' gangsters _stole_ ya Hungry-Man!"

…_What_?

"Are ya fuckin' _serious_?" Alfred demanded, throwing his hands in the air in a show of frustration. "You tryin' t' tell me that the fuckin' mafia stole _one_ fuckin' TV dinna' outta every last one'a these things? Ya gotta be outta ya goddamn mind, man!"

"I think the evidence is clear!" Arthur argued, pointing at the pile of Stouffer's on the kitchen floor. "These two odd lookin' men burst int'a me home and mess up me stuff—but _only_ steal the only different brand of TV dinna' I have? Nothin' else is missin', Alfred—not even me secret scones recipe!"

Alfred chuckled, finding his cousin to be the best person on this planet. "I don't even think they would _want_ that—stop throwin' things at me!" he whined, ducking just in time to miss the cookie pan aimed for his head.

"So, regardless, I believe ye Hungry-Man t' be gone," Arthur conceded, sighing in defeat. "And now I've gotta clean all o' this up, lousy Americans."

To be honest, Alfred was a little depressed that this happened to him. Arthur really couldn't cook worth a damn, but the nineteen-year-old came to visit him so much that it wouldn't do just to _starve_ because his cousin was culinarily-retarded. So, he liked to keep at least one of his own TV dinners in the man's fridge—but when _those_ aren't even safe?

There's something wrong with the world.

"Artie, cuzzo," Alfred began slowly, looking at his cousin with the saddest face he could muster. "Can I use'a British coi'se word? _Please_ lemme just say one coi'se!"

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. "Um. Sure, I'd suppose?" he replied carefully, clearly not understanding how important the request was.

"Thanks." The bespectacled man took in a deep breath and faced towards the ceiling. "_Bollocks_!" he screamed, shaking his fist threateningly. "And, uh, _bloody hell_!" He let his hand fall to his side, breathing heavily as he did so. That felt oddly great—he should pretend to be British more often or something.

"That…" the Englishman began slowly, staring at his American cousin. "That was oddly racist. Is that all ye think th' British say?"

"Pretty much," Alfred admitted with a shrug and a grin. "I mean, hey, that's all _you_ say. _Bloody hell_ this, _bollocks_ that, blah blah _arsehole_ blah. But, fah'getta 'bout that—we need t' call th' cops, Artie!"

Arthur shoved his hand against the younger man's chest, causing Alfred's breath to heave out in a pained rush. "Not so fast, idiot!" he hissed, pacing from the doorway to the middle and repeating the walk several more times. "This is the bloody _mafia_ we're dealin' with! The German—Beillschmidt, if I kin rememba' his name really—told me he'd be back to clean up me home!" He made a sweeping gesture with a desperately horrified expression.

Alfred, despite the many minutes that passed since his entrance to this madness, felt something click in his mind. "Did'ja say _Beillschmidt_?" he demanded, eyes wide in horror. Arthur nodded his head, and the bespectacled man's throat went a wee bit dry. "Wazzee this tall, blond hair, stern-lookin', gorgeous—"

"—blue eyes?" his cousin finished for him, defeated. "Yes. I really did feel like I could drown meself in those eyes, though."

_Me too, cuzzo._ Alfred thought sadly. _Me too._ "I know that guy," he explained, threading his fingers through his blond hair. "I mean, not like I _know_'em know'em, but like he's mad famous in th' coi'cle I hang in, man."

"The criminal circle?" Arthur asked blandly.

"Well, yeah." The nineteen-year-old shrugged, having nothing to hide. "Thing is, ya just had'a encounta' with Ludwig von Beillschmidt—right hand man, _underboss_ even t' Feliciano Vargas, th' boss of the Vargas Family. And, from what'ta I rememba', ya also got the short end'a Lovino Vargas's temper."

The Englishman cocked an eyebrow. "I'm just guessing that means he's…important?" he tried, but utterly failed at understanding the situation. "Oh, don't lookit me like I don't unda'stand th' situation! Beillschmidt had a _gun_, Alfred—I like t' think I'm a little scared meself."

"The Vargas Family is _big, _man," Alfred continued, holding out his hands in an example of just how _big_ they were. "They've got peeps everywhere, th' latest in technology, half th' NYPD, and they own all th' good pizza places in Manhattan. Ya can't avoid 'em, Artie!"

"But—"

"No buts." Alfred stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, stalking around the kitchen aimlessly. "We'ah in trouble, cuzzo—_big_ trouble."

Arthur pinched his nose. "Which I've realized," he replied, and the nineteen-year-old realized that his cousin was _still_ naked except for the boxers. Why won't he get dressed? "Because, hey, this is _America_. The only blokes with th' gall to be _happy_ in America are people from America—th' place _sucks_ in comparison t' otha' places!"

"Like th' UK?"

"This country would never be able to glance at the UK in a measure of glory."

Alfred found himself chuckling, because his cousin was _so awesome_ when it came to being a self-pretentious douchebag. "You'se such'a douche," he said fondly, and then the doorbell rang before Arthur could reply.

The two men froze at the sound, utterly terrified that Vargas returned for revenge.

"Who is it?" Arthur demanded, slowly stepping out of the kitchen. "And, if ye gotta gun—I ain't openin' th' bloody door!"

There was a short silence, then a short rap at the door. "It's th' police," a particularly deep voice spoke through the barrier, even though the words were a bit muffled. "Open up, please!"

Alfred scrunched his nose, frowning. "Yo, he might be lyin'," he said to Arthur, who was cautiously walking towards the door. "C'mon man—don't open that shit! And even if he _is_ th' police, I'm the number one example on why ya shouldn't _trust_ th' cops!"

Arthur turned to look at him incredulously. "The only reason I wouldn't trust'a bill is because you aren't in jail right now," he replied calmly, and wrapped his hand around the doorknob. "As well, at least this bloke _knocked_." And he opened the door to the man behind it.

The first two things to come to Alfred's mind were, inevitably, _man, this isn't a cop—this is a male model_ and _whoo someone didn't shave this morning_.

The policeman was about the nineteen-year-old's height—maybe an inch or two taller. He seemed to be pretty in-shape, and had the kind of long, wavy blond hair you'd see in a vampire movie instead of the New York beat.

The man held up a badge. "I'm Detective Francis Bonnefoy," he greeted with a peculiar, light accent, holding out a hand to Arthur. He raked his blue eyes along the shorter man's mostly bare body, and leered. "And you're the man from my dreams—_beau_."

(Alfred, while realizing with a shock that some gay pervert of a detective just fell from heaven for them, could not help but wonder why the name 'Bonnefoy' sounded so familiar.)

"I have no idea what ye dreams are doin' with'a half-naked man," Arthur replied blandly, shaking the detective's hand. "But, it's a charm t' meet ye."

Bonnefoy grinned widely, bringing the hand in his lips. "More of'a charm to meet _you_, Mr…?" he kissed the back of the hand, and Alfred blanched at the telltale signs that Arthur was getting angry.

(It starts when the Englishman's shoulders tense up, then his green eyes narrow to half-mast, and the man's muscles begin to twitch, and lastly but not least—he breathes in an abnormal amount of air in preparation for maximum yelling.)

"Arthur Kirkland," Arthur bit out, apparently resisting the urge to bite this man's head off with his verbal teeth. He snatched his hand away from the detective, scowling. "And I'd appreciate it if ye didn't touch me with those lips any more."

Bonnefoy's blue eyes were wide, and he stepped through the door so suddenly that Arthur had to stumble back and Alfred grabbed the vase in case of emergency.

"Did you say, _Arthur Kirkland_?" he demanded, grabbing the British man's bare shoulders. "Like, _Bayside High School_'s own number one Satan _Arthur Kirkland_?"

Arthur looked bewildered, and Alfred could not blame him. "I _did_ go to Bayside—waittaminnit, what was yer name again?" the Englishman asked suspiciously.

"Francis Bonnefoy," Bonnefoy repeated, a grin stretching his face once more. "We went to school together—we had French Three and a bunch of other classes I don't really care about! Artie!"

"B-B-_Bonnefoy_?" Arthur stammered, blushing red to his shoulders. Alfred cocked an eyebrow, lowering the vase. This was getting…_interesting_. "It's, uh, it's _really_ you?"

"_Oui_!" the detective pulled him into a more-than-brotherly hug that included a lot of back-rubbing and near ass-gropes. "Artie, it's so great to see you again! And, look at you—if it weren't for your hideous eyebrows, I'd sexually harass you where you stand! You look _fantastique_!"

Alfred couldn't help but add his input. "Ya seem t' already be doin' that," he commented, smirking at his cousin's frozen state of shock. "And, what's this, Artie? Ya ain't _fightin'_ it?"

Arthur snorted from his position against the policeman's body. "Hold on, ya twit!" he hissed. "Just lemme find the—there we go."

"Augh!" Bonnefoy yelped, releasing Arthur almost immediately. He grabbed at his nipples, and Alfred automatically sympathized with the man—Arthur had the pinch of a God. "_Mon dieu_! If you didn't want me to hug you, then you could've said _non_!"

The shorter blond man sniffed, brushing off his hands like they were smothered in dirt. "Would ye've listened?" he asked in a horribly cynical tone.

"…_Non_."

"Then there's that." Arthur huffed, turning around. "Now, get out of me home or do ye job—"

Alfred stared at Bonnefoy for a few long minutes, and then he snapped his fingers. "Yo, Artie, is this _that_ Bonnefoy?" he asked, remembering a conversation from years past when Arthur used to be his super awesome idol.

Arthur turned to look at him as though he were stupid. "…I only _know_ one Bonnefoy, and it's th' pervert behind me," he deadpanned.

"No, no! Y'know, _that_ Bonnefoy—the one ya, hee hee," Alfred snickered, glancing at the detective. "The one ya wanted in on his _pants_?"

"…" Arthur paled to a point where paper could no longer contend for pure whiteness, and Bonnefoy stopped rubbing his manboobies just to look at his attempted molestee incredulously. "I have no idea _what_ you're talkin' about, you moron!"

_Oh Artie,_ Alfred thought with a malicious grin. _There are two things you completely suck at—cooking, and lying. But mainly cooking._ "Oh I think ya know just want I'm talkin' about," he continued, tossing the vase in the air and catching deftly with little effort. He flashed a charming smile, winking at Bonnefoy. "Ya rememba' th' times I'd come t' ya house in Middle Village and you'd be like, '_Ugh_ I _hate_ that wanka', Bonnefoy! I just wanna kiss him I hate the twit so much!' and I'd be all, 'dude that's gay' and you'd hit me?"

His cousin frowned. "That sounds _nothin_' like me, ya wanka'!" he snapped, crossing his arms childishly.

"Actually," Bonnefoy coughed into his fist, looking to the side. "It sounded _just_ like you."

"Who _asked_ ya, ye twit!"

"But, regardless," the detective sighed, letting go of his clothed nipples just to land one good grope on Arthur's ass. The Englishman jumped with a yelp, hands clamping over the area in a weak defense. "I came here for a reason, _oui_?" He grinned, rubbing the thick stubble on his chin. "I've been tailing the Vargas Family for about three years now. Every time there is _l'information_ on activity—I am there! Every time there is a murder in Manhattan? I am there! Every time I want a _délicieux_ slice of pizza? You can find me on 34th and 18th!"

Alfred blinked, surprised that this guy was possibly _for real_. "Why are you tellin' us all this if he's so bad? And do ya follow _real_ criminals all th' time?" he asked, his excitement bubbling inside. "Even th' _real_ dangerous ones?"

Bonnefoy chuckled, shaking his head. "My friend, Vargas the Boss _is_ dangerous," he replied with a smile. "He's _so_ dangerous that I'm putting in an extra effort to try and help you both by telling you the situation." The smile metamorphosed into a leer out of _nowhere_ when he looked at Arthur. "But, now that me and my old high school…_classmate_ have been reunited, I shall put in an _extra_ extra effort!"

Arthur growled lowly in his throat, but Alfred intervened. "Tha's fuckin' A, man," he said gladly, grinning widely. "Because we def' need ya Dick Tracy skills f' this shit!"

"Hmm?" Bonnefoy hummed, cocking an eyebrow. "I do not follow."

"Just check out th' kitchen man. It's like a pahty ya weren't invited to!" Alfred insisted, rubbing the back of his neck.

(Why did he have such a bad feeling about all of this?)

**The Jones Development - END**

* * *

UH OH

Why does everyone have a bad feeling? Whoa, what is up with this aforementioned high school crush from Arthur? Is Francis really a detective? Why is Lovino such an ass to everyone? Why is Alfred such an ass to Arthur? How are they cousins, exactly? And what the _hell_ is up with that TV dinner?

You'll find out…sooner or later. :D _Hell yeah_ I'm awesome no?

The next chapter will feature: …LOVINO'S POV yaaay (pop confetti) because he is not only crazy fun to write but you realize _just_ how important the TV dinner is ha ha

Alfred and Ludwig are currently tied for most awesome POV to write btw

_SONG QUIZ TIEMZ!_  
"Said you took a big trip—they said you moved away, happened all so quietly, they say. Should've took a (blank), something I can keep—buy a little frame…" BONUS if you can guess the song title and artist yes

(last timez winnars are…  
_Viilarus! Mii-Chan! Yingyingyang! _All of you get a point.) (There is a prize for this stuff, ye know lol)

And seriously, try pronouncing every single thing that Alfred, Lovino, and Arthur say in the proper accents. You will get a _kick_ out of it, I swear. :D


	4. The Vargas Logistic

**The Collective Analysis of a Former Delinquent**

I don't know why you guys are so in love with Ludwig's gorgeous blue eyes

They're just…blue and shit—nothin' special except for how beautiful they are

Gosh guys. Oh oh man how do you feel about Lovino/Ludwig in a hilariously one-sided crush because I am so down for it like _whoa_

(And now…the mystery of the TV dinner comes closer to being solved because of the awesome that is Feliciano)

_

* * *

4 – The Vargas Logistic_

Lovino Vargas had no idea what time it was when they shuffled onto the F train going to Manhattan—he just knew it was too early for this shit.

"—oh yeah, _good one_ Ludwig," he snapped, crossing his arms irritably. He hated having to scold Ludwig about his fuck ups at night. "'Cause that was th' most _hah'dcore_ thing ya could'a said! _We'll be back t' clean up ya house_? What're we? A couple'a fuckin' custodians?"

Ludwig looked like he wanted to slam his forehead through subway's large panning window. "It wasn't about being hardcore, _Lovino_," he replied tersely, like Lovino was _bothering_ him or something as crazy as that. "It was generally me trying to ensure that Mr. Kirkland was aware that we could kill him if we so wanted to."

See, that was the thing about Ludwig that nobody ever got—the big lug was always thinking, for God's sake. He thought and thought and _thought_ until he couldn't think anymore, and then it so happens that he ended up overthinking the situation in it's entirety.

(And people usually thought that Lovino was unobservant.) (They also thought him to be rude, inconsiderate, selfish, self-centered, self-serving, insufferable, cowardly, a 'douchebag', depressing, and weak. These were the people who _obviously_ had too much fun with a thesaurus like the assholes they are.)

"Ludwig," Lovino replied with an exaggerated eye-roll. He scoffed, lightly punching his partner on his well-muscled arm to show that he found the whole 'overthinking' thing kind of endearing if it weren't for the fact that the German is a huge, bossy, tasteless, alcoholic douche. "We'ah th' fuckin' _mafia_—I think he _knew_ we might be back. I mean, to kill him."

"I mean, _yes_, I understand that—"

"Then why the fuck did'ja keep talkin' t' him?" the Italian cut him off, smirking at the offended frown plastered to Ludwig's face. "'Cause sometimes, Ludwig? I think that _you_ jus' like th' sound'a ya own voice." _Not that it's a bad sound, but—shit bad thought process_.

Ludwig scowled, hugging the TV dinner close to his chest. "I enjoy being more than just a grunt in the grand scheme of things," he said haughtily, sneering at the smaller man. "And there's no reason for me to love the sound of _my_ own voice when you are always there to override it. _Without fail_."

_Aww, Ludwig,_ Lovino thought sarcastically. _It's great to know that I annoy you to the point of cynical status._ "Well, ya could always just do what I do," he replied with a shrug.

"Whine to my brother about things that frankly don't matter to most humans?"

"Bitch, I will _stab_ yer ass—I mean, _no_." Lovino cleared his thought, glaring at the German. "_Ignore_ me. See, I've been ignorin' ya for a long time now—"

"I want you to take the amount of time you've been ignoring me and then multiply that by three thousand," Ludwig deadpanned. "That's a fourth of the number of times I have _attempted_ to block the sound of your grating voice and then _failed_."

Lovino tried to reply to that, but he could only manage to open his mouth and then forgot to close it. Deep in his mind, he realized with a bit of rage that Ludwig von Doucheface got him _again_. Where the _hell_ did he find all of these retorts to be used so _calmly_ against Lovino motherfucking Vargas? This was _not_ the kind of respect he wanted in the mafia! Like, seriously—he was the Boss's _brother_ for god's sake!

"Oooh," someone in the same subway car muttered patronizingly. Lovino threw a dirty look in the general direction of the voice, for he never actually saw the person.

"You'sa bitch," he finally concluded with one last look at Ludwig. With that, he crossed his arms once more and huddled close to the cold seat in an angle that was not touching the German but was also not very far. He wasn't going to risk some shit happening to him because he was a little angry at the moment.

Ludwig shrugged, the TV dinner held tight against his hard, hot—_bad thought process_—body. "Of course, the same could be said of you, but I have better things to do than accuse you of the truth," he replied calmly.

Lovino scowled, looking up at the man. "Like what, asshat?" he asked, his voice laced with the acerbity he was known for.

"Like my future death if it ends up that we messed up here somehow."

Lovino winced, looking down at the dirty subway floor. Why'd he have to say that? Geez, now he reminded the Italian of how frightened _he_ was concerning the situation as a whole. If they messed up, Feliciano would…well, there was no gauge on what could happen, but just know that it had the capacity to be painful.

"You'sa depressin' Jerry of a bastah'd, geez," the Italian grumbled, and Ludwig sighed in possible agreement.

They didn't talk much more after that.

* * *

"_Stand clear of the doors please,_" the mechanical voice of the subway instructed sternly, and Lovino stood to the side of the platform as the train doors closed with a eerie creak. He watched the train pull off in a sudden lurch, and felt that he just found an awesome metaphor to this foreboding feeling.

"So…" he began slowly, looking over the large German man. "…What now, asshole?"

Ludwig stood tall, his head held high as he clutched a small blue box of microwavable food in his hands. "It's time to go to the surface," he replied stiffly, beginning the trek towards the subway exit. "And then, from there—it is time to _die_."

"You'se got jus' about _no_ faith in the Boss," Lovino commented with a quirked eyebrow. "Which is real we'ahd considerin' how you two're, y'know, _fuckin'_ like goddamn bacteria."

The German stopped in all of his steps and turned around just to _scowl_ at Lovino. "Firstly, my relationship with d' Boss is generally _none of ya business_," he replied in his oddly deep voice, and that crazy German accent was starting to shine through like the immigrant he was. "Second—'s not that I have no faith in d' Boss, 's jus' d'at I am aware of my own _mortality_ you moronic excuse of'fa New Yorker."

"Yo, calm down Nazi—it ain't so serious that ya need to pull out that accent o' yers," the auburn-haired man said in what he thought to be a placating tone, but it probably wasn't if the dirty look from Ludwig had anything to imply about it. "All _right_, all _right_. How's about ya think about how it's gonna be mad ace, Luddy? Felici ain't gonna say'a thing, 'cause we didn't do anythin' to get yelled at for, amirite?"

Ludwig seemed to contemplate these words, which was a first for Lovino if he were to be completely honest. "You're right for once," he said firmly, squaring his shoulders. "We've got the package, so the Boss should be happy if nothing else."

_Wait,_ Lovino thought momentarily. _The Boss is, like, default-happy…how do you make him happier?_ This was to be researched as soon as possible, because the Boss really _was_ an odd man. (He reserved the blood right to say this, as well.)

The duo ambled out of the underground station, the cold air pinching their exposed skin almost immediately.

Lovino reached into his pocket for his balaclava, but Ludwig glared at him.

"You put on that disgusting thing," he started in a threatening pitch of voice. "I'll punch you in the face."

The Italian slowly returned his hand to his jean pocket, where he stuffed it in the denim in what he hoped was subtly.

(With muscles like those, even _Lovino_ took threats from Ludwig von Beillschmidt seriously.)

Ludwig nodded with a pleased frown. "Thank you." The German man looked around the area with his absolutely _amazing_ yet observant blue eyes. Lovino secretly thanked his Catholic God for the obvious height difference between him and Ludwig, otherwise he'd be staring into the guy's beautiful baby blues all day. "Oh, there he is."

"Who?" Lovino asked, looking around from behind Ludwig's back. "Feliciano?"

"…No." Ludwig waved his hand shortly, a small smile on his face. "Kiku."

…Kiku Honda?

What the _hell_ was that man doing outside of his isolation bubble at this time of night?

(Lovino personally couldn't _stand_ Kiku Honda, Jap extraordinaire. The man was _weird_ to a degree where weird _stopped_ being weird and just started being _creepy_. He was also mad short, like inches smaller than Lovino himself. And yet people insisted on getting the Italian's age mixed up with some high school kid's, but nobody messed up Kiku fucking Honda's age. _Whatever_ it was, the sneaky fuck.)

The Japanese man caught sight of them, and held up his hand in greeting. He was leaning primly against a black car, reading a book and twiddling with his sleeves simultaneously.

Ludwig speed-walked in the man's direction, and Lovino hurried to catch up to the German's long-legged gait. What the hell was this douche planning?

"Kiku," Ludwig greeted with more exuberance than he usually showed Lovino, and Honda cracked a small smile with a nod. "Thank you for coming for us—you have been a great help."

"It is no problem, my friend," Honda replied, pushing himself off the side of the car with more grace than most men possessed. He glanced at Lovino, his eyebrow quirking in question. "Did…did you two manage to complete the objective? At _all_?"

Lovino narrowed his eyes. "Whaddaya tryin' t' say, he'ah?" he asked lowly.

Honda blinked. "I thought myself to be clear," he responded in the same monotone as usual. "But, I was implying that you and Ludwig's partnership is an epic failure on the Boss's side and that the two of you get more _not_ done than you should."

_Note to self,_ Lovino thought with a scowl. _Talk to Feliciano about this douchebag. Well, after talking about that _other_ douchebag first, of course_. He snuck a short glare at the German next to him, who simply stood there with his lips pursed contemplatively.

He opened up his suit jacket just to expose a corner of the blue box. "We got the package," Ludwig said calmly. "And, to be honest, we wouldn't've been successful if it weren't for the fact that Lovino is not only an idiot, reminiscent of puberty for females, silly, uncouth, uncultured, terribly rude, cowardly, and three out of five times useless—he's also good at larceny and generally being a common burgular."

"…" The Italian's options were currently at three. He could, one, snarl and throw himself at the German asswipe in a totally not-homosexual way. Two, he could say something just as (if not more) clever to Ludwig but leave himself open for verbal heartbreak. Or, three—he could focus on the end of the statement. "Tha's real sweet'a ya, Luddy."

Yet, before the conversation could continue, Honda shook his head with the same deadpan expression as usual. "We have an hour until the Boss becomes impatient," he explained, opening the back car door. "So, if you may…?" He gave Lovino this significant look, like he wanted _him_ to get in the backseat.

The auburn-haired man scoffed. "I call mothafuckin' _shotgun_," he snapped. "I ain't sittin' in th' back like some sort'a, I dunno, unda'privileged kid."

Ludwig stared at him. "When you write your autobiography," he commented offhandedly. "It will be _obscenely_ accurate."

"Bitch, you—"

"Vargas, get in the car," Honda commanded sternly, wriggling his hand against the car door. "I have something of particular importance to speak with Ludwig about."

"You just wanna talk about some _gay_ shit like that guy ya met yesterday or some shit 'bout ya stupid _cats_."

Honda's eyes narrowed. "My cats are _not_ stupid," he said in a menacing tone. "And I can quite simply leave you here in the middle of Northside at about three in the morning. _By yourself_."

Lovino felt himself freeze at the thought of being alone in New York at three in the morning—dear god _no_.

(That was probably Lovino's greatest fear, by the way—the fear of being by himself in most situations. Being a twin has given him dependency issues that even _he_ could admit to be troubling.)

"…Fuck you," but he shuffled into the backseat, crossing his arms like a petulant child. Goddamn the world for knowing his true weakness and using it against him constantly! "I hope ya crash, Jap bastard."

Honda sniffed, shutting the door a bit harder than necessary. "Then you would not be the most fortunate yourself, being in the car with me," he commented as he slid into the driver's seat. Ludwig sat in the passenger's seat a bit roughly, causing the car to slightly rock under his weight. "But, please, let's refrain from this unnecessary fighting, my friends."

Ludwig nodded, buckling in his seatbelt. "We must carefully consider the situation, Guido," he said, looking back at Lovino with narrowed eyes.

Lovino yawned, waving a hand in dismissal. "Don't worry abou'det," he muttered.

* * *

"I'm worrying about it," the German man admitted as they stood in front of a deceptively normal looking door. He squeezed the box in his hands repeatedly, and Lovino couldn't help but want to comfort the douche.

He placed a hand over Ludwig's shaking ones, sighing. "It's gonna be fine, Nazi," Lovino said slowly, mouth twisting in a mangled semblance of a smile. "We'ah gonna go in, give'em th' package, and then walk right back out as fine as th' day, ah?"

Ludwig blinked, and looked down at his hand. "Why are you touching me?" he asked carefully, making the Italian feel like the air just got _very_ awkward.

(Actually, make that _extremely_ awkward.)

"Um." Lovino looked down as well, and wished there was a way for him to remove his hand without adding on to the whole 'weird' vibe in the atmosphere. "I, err'a, um."

"This…is kind of awkward." Ludwig said in an particular tone of voice. It was the kind of tone that was strained but at the same time terribly confused.

Lovino could only agree. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Um."

Then, the door in front of them creaked open, and the auburn-haired man snatched his hand away from his partner's fist, stuffing it in his pant pocket.

Honda stepped out of the room, eyeing the two of them with a sort of wariness. "Vargas wants to talk to you two," he announced after a moment, fixing his suit jacket. "As soon as possible, he says."

Lovino frowned. Feliciano wanted to see them _ASAP_? That's…that's actually not very good. "Sure," he replied, smirking. "We'll be in there in'na sec, alright?"

"It is not me who cares," Honda replied cryptically, and he walked away with a small shrug.

_Ugh,_ Lovino thought, watching the man walk away. _That is one creepy-ass motherfucker._

"Lovino," Ludwig spoke to get his attention, and the small man looked at him with a jump. "It's time for us to go inside."

"Um." Lovino looked up at him, and realized that despite the fact that Ludwig von Beillschmidt was five foot eleven, endowed with gorgeous blue eyes, packed with muscle, a completely self-righteous douchebag, and a weird potato lover—he was still his partner and they had to face this together. "Yeah, you'se right."

"As per always when it comes to you," Ludwig replied curtly, and he opened the door wide enough for the both of them to fit through.

So, now it was time for Lovino to glance around The Office (as the emphasis was important for anyone in the Vargas Family) once more. It was a simple room, if not oddly intricate with the interior decoration that was all designed by Feliciano Vargas himself. The art on the walls was very Renaissance, and the furniture had a sort of modern redwood touch.

(But, that was enough about the decór.)

"Lovi?" a particularly childish tenor called out, and a high-backed chair swivelled around to reveal Lovino's beloved yet oddly dangerous younger twin brother.

Feliciano Vargas was quite possibly the most _un-_threatening-looking person in this entire mafia. He was very smiley—he had permanent dimples in his cheeks and his eyes were in a near constant state of closure whenever he was seen. His hair, a lighter reddish-brown than Lovino's, was styled towards the right of his face (except for an exceedingly stubborn strand that curled out on top).

Lovino gulped slightly as his brother grinned at him. This…was not going to end well. "Yo, Feliciano," he greeted with a faux sort of cockiness. "How'zit goin', bro?"

Feliciano laughed, delighted. "It's been goin' great, Lovi," he replied. He turned to the large blond man behind Lovino, and his smile somehow _widened_. "Ludwig! Hey!" He sat back in his chair, waving the man over. "Ya didn't gimme m' kiss yet, ya big doofus!"

Ludwig smiled even though one could tell he was trying not to, and stepped up to the desk. "Sorry," he apologized quickly, and leaned over the wooden surface in order to land a small peck on Feliciano's cheek.

Lovino looked away—they were so _loving_ for mafioso that it was nearly sickening. That, and it also had this bad habit of reminding him of how single he was.

"Not'ta problem," Feliciano laughed once Ludwig returned to his spot next to Lovino. The younger Italian clapped his hands together, smiling at the two men. "So, what's the deal? Did'ja get th' package?"

_Oh god, oh god._ Lovino and Ludwig shared a long look before the shorter man cleared his throat. Better now than never, he believed.

"Yeah, we got'cha package," he said with a smirk, and Ludwig placed the Hungry-Man on Feliciano's desk. "Hope ya enjoy _whateva'_ is in that thing."

Feliciano's eyelids opened to a half-lidded state, and he looked down at the box on his desk like it was a dead animal. "Hmm…" he hummed, interlacing his fingers with a click of the tongue. The smile stayed on his face, but there was a certain edge to it at this point—an edge that frankly was scaring the shit out of Lovino. "This is a Hungry-Man."

Ludwig swallowed rather loudly, and bumped his arm against Lovino's. "Yes," he replied uncertainly. "We brought the package as requested. Which was a television dinner box, yes?"

"Ya brought me'a _Hungry-Man _box," the young man repeated, picking up the blue box with his index and thumb, as though it were something terribly dirty.

Lovino braced himself, and Feliciano's eyes narrowed as his smile dropped.

"I wanted a Stouffa's," he stated in a deadly sort of voice.

The auburn-haired man immediately pointed at Ludwig, who already had his finger directed at Lovino. "He grabbed it," they spoke simultaneously, and threw the other a dirty look once they realized the purposeful betrayal.

Feliciano stood up momentarily and tossed the Hungry-Man into the garbage bin in front of his desk. He then sat down with his fingers automatically intertwined, a small frown on his face.

"Ludwig," he began, looking the German dead in the eye. "If ya woi'n't my lover, you'd prob'ly be _dead_ right now."

Ludwig nodded, a depressed expression on his face.

The boss turned his light brown eyes to his older brother, whom of which was trying to subtly hide behind Ludwig and was failing. "And, Lovino—I don' even think ya _wanna_ know what would happen t'ya if you woi'n't _blood_ and m' brotha'."

"Eep!" Lovino squeaked, and then cleared his throat. "I mean, we'ah _sorry_ Feliciano! T' be honest, it's a mistake that can easily be fixed, I swear t' ya!"

"A mistake?" Feliciano repeated, the smile slipping back onto his face. "Tell me 'bout this…_mistake_?"

_Oh god, oh god, oh god!_ This was not a good meeting at all, Lovino felt.

"Okay, so rememba' that time on Wednesday when I got arrested on accident?" he explained, gesticulating as he spoke. He didn't know why he always used hand gestures as he spoke, but it was just something that he did all the time. In fact, so does Feliciano and his grandpa, so maybe it was an Italian sort of thing. "Yeah, okay—ya rememba' how ya sent Ludwig t' talk t' me directly after th' transaction, right?"

"Right," Feliciano agreed, eyes open in interest. "Keep talkin', bro."

"…Okay!" Lovino cleared his throat. "So, Luddy makes it, right? But, apparently in th' thirty minutes it took'em t' get to the precinct—he drops th' package."

Feliciano looked at Ludwig in a particular way, like he was gauging the man's scientific make-up. "That's real we'ahd," he commented offhandedly, tapping his chin in question. "It's not…_like you_ to make a simple mistake like that."

Lovino snorted. "Tha's what _I_ said, man," he muttered, crossing his arms with a huff.

Ludwig looked at him once and clenched his fists, which probably meant that Lovino should stop with his unnecessary comments if he want some of his bones still in place.

"In my defense," the German spoke up, his deep voice rumbling through the tension-thick air. "The man bumped into me rather roughly, and I did not want to leave such an important delivery in the car."

"I didn't say I was angry," Feliciano replied with a grin. "So, don't get all worked up, Ludwig. I was jus' sayin'—it's not like you t' make simple eff ups, y'know? But, hey, let's not get all off-track o' anything. Lovino, keep goin'."

Lovino nodded. "So, then two days lat'ah, yesterday, this we'ahd British douche comes in while I'm yellin' at Ludwig fer his dumbassery and 's all, ''Ello jolly good mates, I've got yer TV Dinna'!' So we broke int'a his apah'tment in Queens last night—he catches us—and lemme tell ya that this Brit has a fuckin' museum of _Stouffa's_. So, we grabbed the only one that was different, which ended up bein' ya Hungry-Man." He took in a deep breath. "The end."

Feliciano cocked an eyebrow. "…Nice, I guess," he said, shrugging with a hum. "But, I gotta say, Luddy and Lovi—ya story ain't ov'a yet."

Ludwig froze. "What do you mean?" he asked carefully, keeping his eyes on the small man behind the desk.

"Ya jus' told me that some British man in Queens has m' box of Stouffa's Broiled Chicken in Marinara," the boss explained with an excited grin. "And, ya two might not realize it, but that's a very important delivery to the Family. Of course, ya gotta get it back, guys!" He laughed, cheerful once more.

Lovino wanted to choke his brother. "But, bro—"

"No buts," Feliciano cut him off, smiling widely. His eyes were closed again, which meant that they were still safe…for now. "Ya lost it, now ya gotta find it."

The blond man next to Lovino tapped his finger against his clean chin, thinking rather hard about _something_. "Can I at the very least get a new partner?" he asked, and didn't even gasp for breath when Lovino jabbed his elbow into the man's hard stomach.

"What? No!" Feliciano chuckled good-naturedly. "Ya two work _so well_ togetha'—ya don't even realize it, huh?"

"If by 'work well' you mean _ultimate failure_, then yes," Ludwig replied in a deadpan voice. "We do work very well together."

"It _is_ an ultimate failure!" Lovino cried, rubbing his temples. "We do nothin' but fight, he insults me all th' time, I insult him all th' time, we can't even ride the goddamn subway togetha'!"

Feliciano snorted, waving a hand in dismissal. "Tha's bullshit," he retorted. "Ya did jus' fine gettin' me that Hungry-Man." His grin widened. "But, this time, instead of gettin' a piece of crap TV dinna', I'd like'a Stouffa's."

"Felici—"

"Ya got two days t' get me that Stouffa's," the boss cut him off once more, laughing. "'Cause, honestly? I'm hungry f' pasta, and I can't cook with all this papah'work."

Ludwig and Lovino shared another look.

"All right, Guido," the German finally said, squaring his shoulders. "Let's return to the outside."

Lovino blanched. "But, it's fuckin' dark out there'a, man," he whined. "And th' subway won't be runnin' again until, like, _six_!"

Feliciano blinked. "Oh man, then go t' bed," he suggested with a short frown. "It's real dangerous out the'ah at night anyway."

Ludwig nodded. "Thank you," he said, and turned around stiffly.

"Oh, Ludwig, you stay back," the boss said with a grin. "Lovino, ya room is clean and whateva'."

Lovino gagged. "You fags suck," he muttered, walking out. He plugged his fingers in his ears immediately after the statement in order to ignore his brother's likely-to-be-lewd statement.

(He had to get a great night's sleep tonight if he wanted to even _breathe_ tomorrow, and that wasn't going to happen if he stayed in The Office.)

**The Vargas Logistic - END**

* * *

Feliciano the mafia boss equals lololol right riiiight

Because I laugh at the thought, yet also had tons of fun writing him. He's like really happy-go-lucky with the whole mafia business, but knows what the hell he's doing. That's why the Vargas Family is so feared yeah

Lovino is such an ass to everyone it's crazy

_SONG QUIZ TIEMZ_  
"Oh look at those clothes—oh look at that face it's so old…it's such a (blank blank), it's really laughable!"  
I love this song more than I love most things btw  
(chapter two's answer was "balaclava" to Horchata by Vampire Weekend, and chapter three was "picture" to Everyone Says Hi by David Bowie)

Next chapter is Detective Bonnefoy—the TV dinner mystery is finally unveiled, but not solved!


End file.
